All Through The Night
by Battlefield Angel
Summary: Who can really say how it all started between them? Perhaps it was an old lullaby...
1. Sleep My Child, And Peace Attend Thee

A/N: I got this idea in my head the last time I saw the film. In both the original novel, and in the musical, I find myself continually intrigued by Erik's essential innocence. I don't mean innocence in a sexual sense, though that does play an important role. I mean to say that he has an innocence in contrast to more worldly characters, such as the Comte Philippe in the novel, or Raoul in the musical. Even in the most recent film (I enjoyed it, despite some flaws... ), despite his great sensuality, there is an unsullied quality that the Phantom exhibits. He is all emotions, raw and powerful. He does not cloak his feelings as some do, but wears his heart on his sleeve, and he pays for it.

I chose the name of the story from one of my favorite lullabies. I have vague memories of having been sung to when I was little, and this sweet old Welsh melody is, along with Wynken, Blynken and Nod, a staple of childhood.

K.S.

_Sleep, My Child, And Peace Attend Thee_

The little girl knelt at the rack of prayer candles. She lit one little candle with an almost exaggerated care. She closed her eyes and began to recite her _pater noster_. The light from the candle gilded her chestnut hair, and through the stained glass of the _chapelle _window, it seemed as though she were crowned with a halo of light.

The man behind the window listened intently as the child finished her prayer and then began to sing an old folk tune. He nodded. The same routine, every evening. Such a sweet little voice. Such a lost little child! He knew what it was to be lost, and alone, and frightened. And so, he pitied this girl-child. And, for reasons he could not explain, even to himself, he wanted to help her. But he had not been prepared for the figure just beyond the glass to burst into unhappy tears.

"Please, Papa," the forlorn little creature whispered, "Please, send the Angel. You promised me, Papa. The Angel of Music, to look after me." She whimpered the word 'angel' over and over, till she fell asleep, exhausted in her grief.

The man paused, as if unsure what to do. She wanted an Angel of Music. That her voice was a wonderful instrument, and would, with age and experience, become something great, was a foregone conclusion in his mind. But for him to teach this child, to give her the direction she needed, gave him pause. He would consult the one person in the Opera whose opinion he could seek without fear.

But first, the child could not very well sleep on that cold stone floor. And so, abandoning his watching place, he stepped out from behind the angel window. He was a tall young man, only just twenty. He had filled out in the eleven years since he had found sanctuary here, and had grown out of his gangliness. The formal attire and rich cloak only made him seem more powerful. Yet his touch was gentle as he lifted the little girl from the floor. She leaned into him, snuggling into the sudden warmth. But she did not wake. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had a feeling that if she had awoken, and seen the mask; she'd have gone into hysterics. And that, he could have done without.

She stirred a moment, and opened her eyes. "Angel?" She inquired sleepily, her eyes unfocused.

"Hush," He said, and began to croon softly to her, a song he had heard long before.

_"Sleep my child and peace attend thee,  
All through the night  
Guardian angels God will send thee,  
All through the night  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping  
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,  
I my loving vigil keeping  
All through the night."_

The child sighed and smiled as she snuggled closer to him, "You really are the Angel of Music." She was fully asleep when he laid her down in her bed in the ballet dormitory. He smiled and settled the blanket over her. She thought him an angel! This child was special indeed. He decided to go directly to Madame Giry. There was no time to be lost. The little girl with the voice of a lark would become the resident diva of the Opera Populaire before she was twenty, if he had any say in the matter. And, making certain the mask was quite secure, he smiled. He did have a say in the matter: He was, after all, the Phantom of the Opera.

"Madame Giry," The voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but she knew the speaker.

"Yes?" He had grown into an intimidating man. This was the first time in many months he had actually spoken to her, preferring to use notes edged in black.

"The little girl. The one who is always in the chapel, what is her name?"  
"Christine Daae. She is to train with the ballet."

"Daae? The violinist..." he trailed off.

"His daughter. She prays for his soul. Christine loved her father very much."

"Like Gilda and Rigoletto?"

Madame Giry smiled sadly. Poor boy, what he knew of love was gleaned from operas. "Yes. But her father has died, and she remains."

The shadow paused, as if unsure of himself, "She has a beautiful voice, and it will become stronger as she grows. I... I want to teach her, Madame Giry. In ten years, she'll be the most amazing lyric soprano in the Opera. And by the time she is twenty-five, fully grown into her voice, the world."

"Why are you doing this? She is a grieving child."

"Perhaps that is the reason. Madame Giry," his tone became subtly wheedling, as it often had when he was a child and had wanted her to bring him candles, or paper to write on. "What harm could come of it. She is, after all, a little girl."

"Teach her then. But be gentle with her, Erik. She's had much heartache for one so young. "

"Maybe she will do me good as well. I am, I think, too much alone." His voice had softened. Perhaps he had found a kindred spirit.

"Erik..." Giry was alarmed by this. He was already a master plotter, and if he should take the girl from the ballet...

He changed again, teasing again, "In any case, Madame; you should better watch your charges. _La petite _Daae cried herself to sleep in the chapel, and were it not for my good graces, she would be there still. And stone floors can be quite cold, Madame Giry." His cat-eyes, sometimes gray, sometimes green, darkened at the thought of cold stone floors.

"You..."  
"I scooped her up and carried her directly to the dormitory, then I came to you. I have no interest in ballet rats, Madame. You forget, I am the Opera Ghost, not that revolting stagehand, Buquet." He frowned. "Something ought to be done about him. I would not let your girls, of any age, roam about the Opera with him abroad."

"I will remember that. You'd best go. Daylight comes early in the summer."

"And I am a creature of darkness."

"We make our own light, Erik. " Giry put her hand to his face, unconcealed by the mask, "You remember that."

Hopefully, Chapter Two will come soon. Enjoy.

Warmest regards,

K.S.


	2. Guardian Angels God Will Send Thee

Isn't the thought of guardian angels intoxicating? Someone, unseen, making sure and certain that you're safe, cared for. That there is something higher than yourself, keeping an eye out for you. How bewitching! But then, I shall keep my odd fancies to myself... at least till I can work them into the story. Think Vega of the Lyre....

K.S.

* * *

_Guardian Angels God Will Send Thee_

He was amazed at Christine's progress after only a year. After five, he knew that she would soon be

a star. She began to dance in the _corps de ballet _when she was twelve, and by fourteen, she was a leader along with little Meg Giry. He felt a warm pride. Not fatherly... oh no, never that. But it was a feeling quite alien yet terribly welcome. He had someone to care about, someone who needed _him_.

Christine Daae had been a sweet, unassuming child. She had grown from childhood to girlhood seemingly overnight. Now she stood on the threshold of womanhood. He grimaced at the thought. Suitors and patrons would soon be knocking at her door. But they would go away disappointed, he though smugly. Because the only man she needed was the one whom she called "Angel."

Madame Giry, no longer a ballerina, but the ballet mistress overseeing all the Opera's dancers, kept his little angel well looked after. She had treated Christine Daae as a daughter. Giry was a great-hearted woman, despite her sometimes austere manner. The woman had taken to heart his warning about the lecherous Buquet, and guarded her chicks like a jealous mother hen. He himself has given the stagehand a terrible fright to dissuade him from following a certain pair of ballet rats who had snuck away from practice. Afterwards, he decided that he should lurk about more often, Buquet was not to be trusted.

But alarmingly, he kept finding reasons to look in on her, disregarding merely keeping her safe as she grew. More and more, he watched her at practice; onstage- she shined already! He followed her through the corridors, an unseen protector. He would make excuses to prolong their rehearsals. Inexplicably, he smiled at the very thought of her. And it was not because of her voice. Wasn't that strange! Oh, her voice, that pure, crystalline soprano drove him to work furiously on his opera. But it was the way her whole face lit up when she heard him that would leave him strangely breathless. There was suddenly a terrifying desire to be near her always; this ferocious need to reach out and touch her face. And there was an alarming tension, an urge to violence when he saw that other men watched her... wanted her.

_He _wanted her.

That realization drove him from his home to the very rooftop of the Opera. There he sat, stars wheeling overhead, till dawn announced herself in a blaze. He did not just want her voice. He wanted _her_. In the way that a man wanted a woman. But there was more than that. And that frightened him. Desire was nothing, easily ignored, easily put aside. The truth dawned on him as he looked up, searching out his favorite constellation, and the star that had been his comfort since he had been a child. He had found out the name of the star, and the constellation it belonged to. Vega of the Lyre. Ironic, and perfect.

He loved her.

"God, no. What will I do?" he whispered. He could see it all, with painful clarity: He would, eventually, reveal to her that he was no Angel, that he was, indeed, a man. And she would hate him for his deceit. Yet she would in time forgive him that. But he knew, from all the operas ever sang, that she would not forgive him his face. The mask, and what lay beneath it ever would be his downfall. Unless...

Unless she learned to love him before she ever saw him. Love him. He had never believed anyone could. Phantom. Monster. _Devil's Child_. But Christine could. Beautiful, wonderful Christine, who smiled for him. Not even Giry smiled when she saw him. Christine did.

And one day, he would take her hand. Then some day soon after that, she would let him kiss her. He'd never kissed anyone before, nor had ever been kissed. But he knew that it must be something wonderful. There was one place he was nearly mad to kiss her. Just where her neck met her shoulder. Just a little light kiss, like the brush of a butterfly's wing. Perfectly chaste, yet vaguely tinged with the erotic. Promising more, when they overcame mutual timidity and innocence.

* * *

Did anyone catch the reference to the Emily of New Moon books? Congrats to those who did.

More to come, I promise...

Warmest regards, etc.

K.S.


	3. I My Loving Vigil Keeping

_I My Loving Vigil Keeping_

_Christine:_

So often, people looked on me in pity. The poor orphan child. I can barely remember my mother. I remember her scent more than anything. Lilacs and lavender, and the warmth of her body. The impression of beauty and gentility is all that remains to me. And that is due, in large part to Papa.

Papa. When he died, it was as if some part of me withered away and died too. I went to the Opera's chapel and prayed for him every evening. I prayed for his soul. And I prayed that he would send to me the Angel of Music, as he had promised with his last gasping breaths.

It happened. There, in the flickering candlelight of the little-used chapel, the Angel of Music came. He taught me to sing like an angel, just as my dearest Papa had promised.

I remember the night I first heard him. I had cried, beating my little hands on the floor of the chapel, so terribly lonely for my Papa. Wanting the Angel to come to me in his stead. And wonder of wonders, he came! I- I think perhaps I saw him as well; though I have never seen him since. I can still recall strong arms scooping my up off the stone floor of the chapel, and a comforting warmth enveloping me. He sang, so that I knew he was the Angel of Music. Though ten years, and many many lessons should dim such a memory, I know the words to the lullaby he sang to me by heart... _"Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee... All through the Night."_

It took me forever to find the whole song, music and lyrics. Finally, I stumbled across them in a book of Welsh (of all things!) songs. I determined that I should learn it for him. I was sixteen and quite hopelessly in love with him. It seems rather foolish to love an Angel, doesn't it? Especially when he is so far above my poor mortal heart. I could not tell him. I could not bear his anger at my folly, and I was too proud to accept pity from my Angel. So I would tell him in song. So appropriate. So _operatic_.

Secretly, not dropping even the echo of a hint to him, I learned the song. I can still remember it by rote. I wanted to surprise him, you see. It was such a lovely song, a lullaby. The Angel told me a lovely story about the bards of Wales. Not only were they musicians, they were poets and prophets, and judges, the wisest of the wise. They were revered on earth and touched with the fire of Heaven. But when subjugated by the English, the bards were hunted down as symbols of the culture the English wished to stamp out.

Oh how I had wept. The Angel himself had seemed saddened. That great music was to be stilled forever to satiate the vanity of kings, must have been, to his eyes, an unpardonable crime. Those brave, unfortunate men!

"But remember, Christine, their songs remain." He told me, ever so gently.

I dreamed of courageous bards - flinging themselves into the sea to prevent capture, singing as they fell. They all had his voice, and eyes that burned with radiance. Only then did I deem myself ready to sing my gift to the Angel.

I took some pains with my appearance after practice had finished that evening. The Angel had told me that the bards of old had worn blue as symbolic of their vocation, their calling. I wanted him to know that I would be a modern-day bard, dedicating myself to truth through music. And so my modest gown was blue in shade. My hair hung down in a braid as thick as my wrist. Almost coquettishly, I tucked a white rose behind my ear. I fancied myself quite grown up. At the entrance to the chapel, I paused, and took a deep breath. I only hoped that the Angel would see as being as grown up as I thought myself.

"You are late," his voice was not angry, yet I still felt myself rebuked nonetheless.

"Forgive me, Angel. I..." I twisted my hands in my skirt a moment, before deliberately smoothing out the wrinkled fabric.

"I have a surprise for you." My smile was shy as I moved to the small spinet that stood oft unused in the corner. "Do you remember, nine years ago, when you first came to me?" I paused. He did not answer. Oh God, please don't let him be angry.

"What are you getting at, child?" He asked at length.

I answered, letting the words spill out, before he could interrupt. "You sang to me. I... I found the song. The _whole _song. I learned it- for you. Let me sing it for you, Angel.Then, perhaps I shall be as dear to you as those poor, proud bards. I even learned to play it. All for you, Angel." I smile then, hoping against hope that he would be pleased.

"Very well, then." His voice was so very soft. I nodded and sat.

I threw all my soul into that soft, sweet little tune. This was for my Angel of Music. My declaration of devotion. My confession of love.

_Sleep my child and peace attend thee,  
All through the night  
Guardian angels God will send thee,  
All through the night  
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping  
Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,  
I my loving vigil keeping  
All through the night. _

_While the moon her watch is keeping  
All through the night  
While the weary world is sleeping  
All through the night  
O'er they spirit gently stealing  
Visions of delight revealing  
Breathes a pure and holy feeling  
All through the night._

_Love, to thee my thoughts are turning  
All through the night  
All for thee my heart is yearning,  
All through the night.  
Though sad fate our lives may sever  
Parting will not last forever,  
There's a hope that leaves me never,  
All through the night._

By the end of the song, my voice failed, my cheeks were flushed and my heart was in my throat. I felt as though I had been running for hours; I could barely breathe.

The Angel of Music was silent.

"Angel?" My voice which had sung that simple lullaby with such unwarranted passion, tripped and trembled over that one word. "Angel?" I repeated. Still he did not answer. I stumbled over the small bench amd fell upon the floor, catching myself, but scraping my palms.

I paid them no mind. I was panicked now, close to hysterical.The biting pain in my hands was nothing to the constricting horror in my heart. I was appalled at my presumption. I must have offended him so! He must have returned to Heaven, deeming me unworthy.

I cried out, one last time, in sheer desperation, "Angel!"

"Christine!" His voice was strangely muffled. Were he a man, I would have believed that his voice was thick with tears. And, for a heretical moment, I wished he were a man, a man who could gather me up in his arms, comfort me... kiss the tears away...

"Thanks God. Thank God," I whispered, pressing my scraped palms together as if in prayer.

"Perhaps, my dear, it would be best if you returned to the dormitory now. Be certain to wash those cuts. We shall merely have to work a little harder tomorrow, that's all. Go on, Christine. You are exhausted."  
I nodded, too drained to argue. I was about to leave when he spoke my name once again.

"Christine? Thank you. No one has ever sang that to me before." Oh! How sad he sounded!

"I would sing it for you every night, if you'd let me!" I cried impulsively, merrily as I left the chapel. I almost did not catch his words, spoken on the edge of a sigh.

"Would that you could, Christine."

And I was left wondering what could cause such terrible sorrow in such a heavenly being.

A/N: I changed the title of this chapter and decided to repost it, considering that the newest chapter was better suited to the former one of this: "All for thee my heart is yearning" Please review, I'm a review whore.

Warmest Regards,

K.S.


	4. Love To Thee My Thoughts Are Turning

Author's Note.

I've had a bit of a mix up about certain title chapters, as the one previous to this chapter suited my newest one the best. So hopefully everthing has been rectified.

K.S.

_**Love To Thee My Thoughts Are Turning**_

**Erik:**

I followed her, making certain she returned to her dormitory without incident. Only when I saw that she was safely tucked away with the other petite ballerinas did I

return to my home. Then, and only then, did I let myself give into the tears that had threatened me since she had begun her precious song.

_She had remembered._

This sweet girl had not only remembered a lullaby sung to her nearly ten years before, but she searched out the whole of it and learned it, even to the playing of it. For _me_. No one had ever done such a thing for me before. I had first heard the song sung by the British contralto, who had retired nearly fifteen years before. She had been inordinately fond of the petite rats, and had told them thrilling stories of her native Wales, I too had listened, a child myself. My favorite stories were of the bards of ancient Cambria.

I often imagined that I had, in some past life, been one of those self-same bards. It was my favorite childhood game. The Opera was my playground, and I the minstrel boy, escaping the wrath of an evil king. I had told the stories to Christine, thrilling her with the same tales that I had found so enchanting. Somewhere, I had filched a copy of the Mabinogion, and I related some of those tales to her. Only the most tame, I assure you! The rape of Goewyn and the subsequent punishment of the king's nephews were too worldly for my little angel. No, she thrilled to the tale of Llew and the tale of Olwen, and all the brightness of the courting of Rhiannon. But it was my lullaby which truly captured her attention. How she knew that it meant so much to me, I'll never know, but she did!

_Could it be?_ It seemed beyond belief. Could she possibly love me? Of course. She loved her Angel. But I'm no angel. No, it couldn't be that she would love me as Aida loved Radames, or any of the great loves from the operas. And rightly so. It isn't right! I'm nearly thirty, for Christ's sake. And I am her teacher. I touched the mask, reminding myself of what lay beneath. Reminding myself that I am a monster. As if I could really forget that. Although I came perilously close to doing just that when I was with her.

But, is it so out of the realm of thought? That there was someone, in this mad world, who could love me? I am a man like other men (A/N: I love that line from the 1925 film and have always wanted to use it.) Should I not have some happiness in my life? Should I always be denied what so many others have found? I walked slowly and reached my hand out to a tapestry, uncovering a mirror. I scrutinized my image. I saw a man, young still, tall and broad shouldered, in black trousers and white linen shirt, _sans _the suit coat, waistcoat and cravat of daywear. Perhaps a bit lean, but not sickly so. Yet my eyes were drawn, inexorably, to my face. They lingered on the mask; but I made a concerted effort to ignore it and focus on the half of my face that the mask did not conceal.

The skin there was smooth. The lips were firm and well-shaped, tilted up in a rather amused quirk. The left side of the nose was rather hawkish, but it was not ill-looking. Paired with the dark wing of the eyebrow, it gave a powerful and imposing aspect to the face. The eyes were somewhere in between blue and green and gray... changeable, like the sea. The eyelashes were thick and dark. Many of the petite rats would kill or maim to have lashes like that. The chin was stubborn, and often set. All in all- it would have been a handsome face- were it not for what lay beneath the mask. Under the mask.

That blank, white visage- smoothing the horrific flaws- hiding my glaring imperfections. Imperfections that had made my life before my rescue by Madame Giry- before I came to the sanctuary of the Opera- a seemingly endless hell. _Devil's Child_. What had I done to deserve that? _What? _I can remember, like a misty dream before the stark unreality of nightmare, my mother. I couldn't have been five years old when my mother, so beautiful, so cold, took gold from the hand of the Gypsy, and gave me no further thought. Her final and lasting cruelty. She had always been so faraway, like a princess locked in a tower, needing rescued. Now I can see that she was Pasiphae, birthing a monster. Not even my own mother could love me.

What presumption led me to even entertain the notion that Christine could? I'm a fool. She loves my voice, but not _me_. And for her sake, I must not betray to her that I love her. I wouldn't want to make her cry. Or worse, laugh. My heart can't bear that rejection. I lay on my bed, dry-eyed with misery. The music box began to play and I listened. It gave no comfort and I resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

_She doesn't love me.  
_

**Christine:**

_He doesn't love me._

Back in the dormitory I washed my scraped palms, pondering what the Angel could have meant in that whispered sign. All I could think was that he doesn't love me: not as I love him. Oh, what is wrong with me? Am I so undesirable? I-I know people see me as rather odd, and sometimes even a little ridiculous- but my Angel never seemed to think so. Maybe I was wrong. How could I even presume to think that he could love me, a foolish ballet girl, when there are so many others more worthy, so many Angels in heaven for him to love and to love him back!

I flatter myself when I daydream that he might even love me enough to forsake heaven and take the form of a man, If I am perfectly honest with myself, that is what I truly want. For him to be a man. A tall, beautiful man, with eyes like the sea, long musician's fingers... I'm being foolish now. But after all, why not? I can imagine leaning my head against a heart beating wildly in a body that would rival the statue of Apollo on the roof. Of gentle fingertips, calloused and nimble from playing both violin and piano, brushing my lips, tilting my chin up to meet... I'd best stop before my imagination runs away with me... again.

Many of the other ballerinas have taken lovers (Some have taken on more than one at a time! What a dreadful thought!); they giggled and whispered of their encounters. But Madame Giry was watchful as any duenna, and had I not had my Angel, I might have wished for a suitor as Meg did. All I want... All I've ever wanted is my Angel.

Does that make me wicked? Or a heretic? To _want _him to fall from grace simply so that I could have him? No! It cannot be wrong to love so.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall tell him. After the dress rehearsal for Hannibal. Surely he shall either love me or leave me forever. And if he leaves, there is nothing here for me. But- I don't think he will leave. His voice, choked with tears, for that is what made him so... strangely human there in the chapel. He _did _weep when I sang that song for him. Perhaps... Perhaps he loves me- just as much as I love him. And after all, shouldn't that be enough?

A/N: It's not going to be all moonlight and roses... I'll throw some starlight in as well, perhaps, and maybe some original verse once I've warmed to the subject again. Thanks to all reviewers, you really make my day.

Au revoir,

K.S.


	5. Visions of Delight Revealing

A/N: I know it's been an eternity since I've updated this. But so much has happened! I've been to Paris and had an interesting encounter with _some_ sort of Fantome de L'Opera. Whether or not it was poor, unhappy Erik, who can tell? But I like to think it was. Having been to the Opera Garnier, it makes me feel all the more blessed to love the story of the Phantom.

Thanks to all who have or will review in future.

K.S.

While the Moon her Watch is Keeping

She brought the house down. There was not a dry eye in the house. I would wager that even Carlotta wept. Tears of pure agitation. One day that woman shall die of apoplexy. I sincerely hope that I have a hand in it. I would have paid some of my carefully hoarded francs to see her fit of pique. But who cares, really, about La Carlotta?  
When there is _La Daae _to adore?

I hurried to the chapel, waiting for her, seeing her slim form still clad in that iridescent meringue of a gown. Spangled with stars, she had seemed the angel she thought me to be. Her hair held the candlelight, gilding it to the rich color of exotic mahogany wood, picking out the lights of gold and auburn in her curls. Oh to be one of those little stars, nestling in her hair! If I thought her an Angel before, now she has transcended that title. She is a goddess. Aphrodite, Venus, Arianrhod, Isis, Brigid, Freya... all the most beautiful goddesses in all the world, names that fall from my mouth like jewels- they all pale in comparison with the Goddess of Music- Christine Daae. Her very name is a prayer upon my lips. Oh, she is so beautiful! And everything that is good and beautiful in this world, she is all that. Yet even here, in this sanctuary, she is beset. But I cannot begrudge Little Meg her best friend for a few minutes.

And so I traveled to the mirror, where I will speak to her. Perhaps… Yes, I will tell her. Tonight, of all nights, none other would be appropriate. On our night of triumph, I shall show myself to her. And I will tell her that I love her. If I must prostrate myself at her feet, begging that she love me in return, so be it. Pride will vanish, and glory will rot. But if she does love me… who needs either? If she loves me… I shall be the happiest of men! I keep my vigil behind the glass, as I watch her enter, Madame at her side like good fairy I know she really is. She has protected the beautiful princess from those rogues who would steal her away from the prince who yearns for her to break the wicked enchantment over him. And Madame has given her my rose- the deepest red, a symbol of my everlasting, undying love- all for Christine Daae. Soon, so soon, I am trembling with the nearness of the moment. I can only hope that I do not frighten her. To discover that her Angel is the Phantom of the Opera… No! She will not turn from me. I cannot give in to these pathetic fears. She will love me. She has to love me. _She does love me_. She couldn't have sang that song… that glorious, sweet, heartbreaking song and not love me. I will not let mere nerves sway me. Deep, calming breaths, one after another.

And who is this?

The patron! The Vicomte de Chagny. He knows her! She never mentioned… no, wait. A boy she knew, when she was very young. The last year of her father's life, at the cottage in Brittany. He ran into the sea to fetch her red scarf. Is this him? No! no, it cannot be. A childhood sweetheart? Oh God… my world is tumbling down about me. She cannot… she cannot think to love him!

He is an aristocrat, titled, and entitled. Entitled to the attentions of the Opera Populaire's newest reigning prima donna, or so he thinks. He'll learn soon enough. Christine Daae is mine. I will not lose her to some young roué who thinks that he can flick a wrist and any beautiful woman will fall to his feet. But my fears are allayed. She dismisses him. Not as regally as she might have done, but I'll overlook that this time. Her relative youth makes her timid at times.

So easy, she stepped through the looking glass, like the immortal Alice. I led her through the underground- she was my star, my light, luminous in white. A lovely Persephone to my Hades. And now I am Charon, ferrying her away across the lake- Averne or Styx, whichever you prefer. And now… we are in my world. Beyond the Opera, beyond Paris even- there is a dark paradise of my own making. And somehow, her light fits into it. She is the star of my night! Every candle lit, swaying under her influence. She is all in white, like a bride. A bride… dare I? Of course, I do. Tonight I will dare anything.

"Come, I have something to show you." I whisper in her ear, my voice soft as the wings of a butterfly. She follows, a dreamy smile upon her face, her eyes soft and misty. I lift the curtain to show her my fondest wish, my most daring dream.

It is her. A life size automat, the wax features sculpted with infinite care- every fold and spangle of the dress and veil in place. Perfect, flawless- _Christine_. Apparently that was one shock too much for her delicate sensibilities. Damnation! I was always one to push just a bit beyond the boundaries, and now look what has happened. She fainted! Never before in her life has she succumbed to what I'd thought was a ploy in the arsenal of the ballet rat or of Carlotta. But this was no ploy. I'd overwhelmed her. I will pay for it in the morning, no doubt. But for now, I sing that sweet lullaby to her, setting her down into the bed. _I'd_ get no sleep tonight, but she would need it. And I could never truly deny her anything. No, for tonight I shall lay aside _Don Juan_, and I shall work on another piece. A new piece. I already know the name. My _Don Juan_ burns, but my _Taliesin_ shines. A theme variation on _All Through the Night_ plays in my head, the core of this new piece. _Don Juan_ is nearly finished- it is the carnal, all the wickedness of me- wrapped up in a blood red bow to be delivered to the managers. _Taliesin_ will be all the goodness, all the beauty I can make- it is the starlit heavens of night, the most exquisite of all the songs in my head. For _Taliesin_ is my love for Christine. All the shining, sparkling heights of dizzying beauty that I can achieve. I have plumbed the depths of my mind, and now, with Christine Daae here with me, I am ready, finally to explore the heavens. I feel joyful, as if my soul is new and fresh. Nothing can hurt me now. She loves me. And someday, someday soon… we shall be together. I can make her happy. I _will_ make her happy.

_While the moon her watch is keeping, _

_all through the night…_

_Visions of delight revealing _

_Breathes a pure and holy feeling,_

_all through the night.__  
_

A/N: I used some quotes from various sources, including lines from "Cross the Green Mountain" from the _Gods & Generals_ soundtrack, and a description of Alice (in _Alice and Wonderland_, etc.) from Mark Twain in his praise of _Anne of Green Gables_. Lastly, "star of my night" is from the Irish ballad, "Kathleen Mavourneen." I know I've not updated in a very very very long time, but I hope that this begin to make up for that deficiency.

And now for the shameless groveling and begging for more reviews. I'm such a review addict! Who needs drugs when praise (and properly worded _constructive_ criticism) is so much more intoxicating!

Now back to my regularly scheduled farewells.

Warmest regards,

K.S.


	6. While the Weary World is Sleeping

And here it is, the long (long) awaited next chapter of All Through the Night. This is in Christine's point of view, and she will say things in it that may not sit quite right with some (myself included), but there has to be a chasm created in order that it be bridged in future chapters (I know how this will end, and like J.K. Rowling, I have my last chapter started, but I don't want to give anything away.) Anywho, if you would be so kind as to review, I would appreciate it greatly.

K.S.

_**While the Weary World is Sleeping**_

I've ruined it. Somehow, I've ruined everything. I don't know what to do! After what I've already done… oh God, I'm so foolish! Blind, impetuous, naïve, foolish Christine! And there is no way for me to fix this. How could I? _I_ am no angel, to turn back the hands of time and space. More a slack-jawed idiot, not to realize the truth for what it was. I'm sitting in this beautiful room, too afraid to move. He's outside the door, I can hear him. The queer little hiccups of sound, as if he's cried all he can and yet still he sobs- with no tears to show for it. How can any one person be so… I don't even know what the right word is… ugly is too cruel, and yet not nearly enough to describe…

Oh I should have known that he was no angel! How could I have been so easily deceived? Foolish, foolish, everything I do seems to be unutterably foolish. I don't dare move, the… the _monster_ shall hear. I think that he hears everything. And it all had just seemed to have fallen into place just a few hours ago! I'd sung for the Emperor himself and been lauded to the heavens. I'd met Raoul again, and he remembered it all, even my foolish affection for chocolates. And the Angel had come to me. I went through my mirror and it was as if I'd stepped into another world. Only when it was too late did I realize that my Angel, my kind, thoughtful, _wonderful_ Angel was in fact the Phantom of the Opera. Yet he did not frighten me, not then. Because, though he wasn't an angel, he still possessed _the voice_. And how sweet he was, just glancing at me, then turning back quickly, as if he were too shy to meet my gaze- as if he could not believe I was really there with him. Now I know why. Oh God, what shall I do? I cannot escape; I do not know the way. It sounds crazy but I… I don't think I could leave even if I knew the way.

After I took off his mask, after I had seen that… that face… even after his terrible display of temper, there was something so pitiable in the way he crept towards me, trying to calm me. And how did I react? Like the frightened little girl I was. I couldn't even give the mask back to him. I didn't want to touch his hand- the hand that had taken mine so tenderly the night before. I slid it across the floor, so that it was just within his reach. And then I fled to the room that I had awakened in. I slammed the door shut and turned the lock, and here I am still- huddling on the floor with my face buried against my knees. He could come in any time. I'm not fool enough to think that a locked door could stop him.

How could anyone be so hideous? It looked as if… I can't describe it, but the right side of his face was in direct contradiction with the left. I've cried out all my tears, he's drained them from me and I have no more left to cry. There's nothing more, I have to get out of this room, I feel as if it is closing in. It is time for me to come out, and to face him. I turn the key in the lock once more, and I swing the door open. He has returned to the organ, with his hands cradling his bowed head. He looks so bleak, so defeated. I don't know what to do! He has lied to me, deceived me for years, and yet I still have neither the courage nor the desire to play the prima donna: to demand to be taken back to the Opera, and to never see him again. I can't do that. I just can't. Because I still remember the little girl whose tears were dried because of a song telling of guardian angels. Because a few short weeks ago I sang the whole of that song to him, loving him beyond any measure. Because, despite it all, I'm not certain that I don't, even now. What am I to do?


	7. All For Thee My Heart Is Yearning

A/N: I had to fiddle around with some chapter names, because it is late and I wanted to get this chapter onto So a couple of chapters have been fiddled with. But hopefully everything has been straightened out and my woeful lack of forethought expunged (that's a fun word, isn't it?)

Here's a little background on this chapter: The previous chapter was Christine's disillusionment. This one goes somewhat into the background I have created for poor, unhappy Erik, and is told through his point of view. I changed the title of an earlier chapter because that particular one fit this so much better- because Erik is yearning for the love that he thinks he will never in his life know. He is yearning for Christine and how he doesn't think that anything will ever be right again.

_**All For Thee My Heart Is Yearning**_

She knows. She knows now and I shall never see her again. Christine will think me the monster I am, not the man I wish so desperately to be. How could she do that to me? To take away my only barrier against the world? My prison and my safe-haven- the mask. And why did I have to react as I always do- with anger, with violence. I didn't hit her, nor hurt her, not physically in any case. But I ruined something precious. She shall never trust me again. She cannot bear the sight of me, and I don't blame her.

I just wanted to be happy. I've never been happy before, not deep down in the bone happy. At most, all I've known in my life are brief flashes of contentment. It is not the same thing. All I can say for myself is that I've lived with varying degrees of wretchedness. And yet… and yet… I was happy. She came to me with no hesitation, her eyes wide, like gems set in the alabaster of her face. When she let me touch her, take her hand; I was happy. When she touched my face, the Janus half which is normal, in that split second before she tore off the mask- I was happy. And then it all fell apart.

I should be used to this. Hasn't my life been a panorama of disappointed hopes and misery? I should have known that I wouldn't have a fairy-tale ending; that this Beast could never hope to win the Beauty. Even my mother couldn't bear the sight of me. She gave me my first mask. It wasn't much of one, but it covered the imperfection. How could I have known what she was capable of? The first five years of my life were dreadful- there are a few memories I can recall. Not many, but enough to know that she hated me. And the years after that were a nightmare.

"_I had to spawn the child of the Devil on the Day of the Dead!"_ She would shriek, _"All Hallow's Eve. The dead walk on that night, do you know, you little monster. You belong with them, not among the living!" _And she would beat me. By the time I was five, she couldn't bear it any longer. There was a Gypsy fair traveling through the town. In the dark of the night, she dosed me with laudanum, and bore me away to their camp. She took gold from them and left me there. She was my mother and she sold me to become a freak! And oh, those bastards never let me forget that fact.

She told them, _she told them_ that my birthday was on October 31. Gypsies are a superstitious lot, and they called me the Devil's Child, and the Living Corpse. On Halloween they would invite the visitors who paid to look upon the conundrum of my face to wish me "many happy returns of the day". And if I wouldn't take off the damn feed sack they had put over my head, I'd get a beating. Over and over again, my keeper would beat me, because despite everything, I was a stubborn fool. I still have the scars from the beatings. Four years I endured that particularly gruesome hell. Four years of beatings, of torture of the acutest kind. And then, freedom!

There are those who will say that freedom is given. I have not found that. Freedom must be taken, and I took it. At nine years old I took freedom with a length of rope. The man who beat me, taunted me, made my life a daily round of horror met his end at my hands, _mine_! I feel no remorse; all I can feel about that time is a clear, knife-edged anger. And they called me the monster. If I am a monster, then all those people- my ice-bitch mother, my sadistic keeper, and all those who watched me in my misery. All those who came to laugh and jeer and did nothing- nothing! - while I went beaten and unfed- they are just as guilty as my two jailers.

Only Giry, fifteen and pitying, ever showed me kindness. She hid me in the bowels of the Opera, and I was grateful. My own wonderland of forgotten corridors and hidden grottoes- it seemed as if it had been constructed solely for my amusement. And so I became the Opera Ghost. The _Phantom_. I like the term the Phantom so much better. Even those foolish little rats of the ballet would scream and twirl at the mere hint of my shadow. But this was a delightful fear, half anticipation and half apprehension- a cocktail of shivers directed at the obscure figure which represented the unknown.

But Christine never feared me. Not until this half-waking dream of a morning. And now, I shall have to return her to the surface, knowing that there is a chasm between us, unbridgeable and vast. But what else can I do? There is nothing I can say or do which will change the fact that she has seen my shameful secret, my face. She will never love me now. And if Christine Daae cannot love me, then who in this world can?

No one. Now I shall never know what it is to be loved; to have someone look upon my face and not care that I look like a monster. Would that some Medusa really existed- to turn me to stone and end my misery. Because my soul would not find the Elysian Fields, but be doomed to torment alongside Tantalus. I will be condemned to hell and there will be no respite. I still want her so! I want her to come out of that room and tell me that it doesn't matter, that she loves me anyway, that we will live happily ever after. But she won't. She is still there, cowering in that room, as I am cowering out here, just outside the door. But I must get up, because she cannot stay in there forever, and I cannot keep her here forever. Giry will be wanting her back soon, to coo and cosset. And I will be alone again, as that bitch, Mother Nature, intended. I suppose that is why they call her 'mother'. There are no miracles, only accidents of fate. And mine was decided the moment I was born. There will be no soul mate for me- I am doomed to walk alone ever more

A/N: I hope you like this. I've had a devil of a time lately getting into the character's head's but a few little gems popped out of my imagination for this one. There is a reference to the 1925 film, as well as some literary and mythological references. I also want to add that I think October 31 (Halloween) is the most appropriate day of the year for the Phantom to have his birthday. It just seems… right somehow.

Please read and review, I'm nutty about it.

Warmest Regards,

K.S.


	8. Soft The Drowsy Hours Are Creeping

It has been a while, I know… but it's been hard writing these days, and I'm still looking for that ephemeral thing- a job. This is Part 2 of "All For Thee My Heart Is Yearning". I start out once again from Erik's viewpoint, then switch to Christine's and then I move to third person. It's not the best in the world, but I hate writing bridgeing chapters…. And I just can't bring myself to skip ahead.

To Nade-Naberrie, Mad Lizzy and The Lady Arianrod- Thanks so much for your continued reviews. It's kinda unbelievable to me that there are people out there who really really like what I write… it gives me hope that I might eventually sell my novel. Thanks again for the support and the reviews.

Warmest Regards

K.S.

All For Thee My Heart Is Yearning: Part 2

Erik:

I returned her, of course. She is now resting under the watchful eye of Madame Giry. I did not touch her. I couldn't, not even to take her hand and lead her from the boat. I delivered her to the ballet dormitories in appalled silence, for I could think of nothing to say that would sway her to forgive me. I delivered my letters as soon as I saw her to her destination. She may hate me, she may loath me, but I will not let that stand in the way of her success.

And now, I sit in the shadowed recesses of the roof, watching as the sun fades in the west, painting the sky with crimson and coral, fading to twilight blues and purples in the east. The stars will be out soon, and there is comfort in them- those scattered diamonds on the velvet of the night sky. And now, in the dark of the night, I can wonder about what might have been. What might have been had she not seen my face; what might have been if I'd not been foolish enough to take her to my home; what might have been… and then reality collapses upon me and I know that my life has been nothing but a series of what might have beens. Despair has been my constant companion, and, unlike Death, he is not known to wink.

I'll never know. I wanted so much to be normal- for once, to walk down the street and not have anyone turn about, or worse, begin to scream or summon the Surete. I was so certain…. So sure that she could look at me and love me. That if she could love me, then everything would end all right. Some childish fantasy- that if someone could look at me and not see the monster, then he would not exist. A sorry ploy to keep going on, lying to myself, looking for a way out of this hell I find myself in. And I believed in that fairy tale, as surely as she believed in her fairy tales from the lands of the Vikings. If only… if only she could see that- that I need her as much as she needed her Angel of Music. If I could somehow explain to her… that perhaps I needed an angel as much as she did… that she is my angel- my hope.

But who is to say that she will believe me?

The night is beautiful. It will be autumn soon- with its whirl of colors and the air crisp and bright. The leaves will fall and dance their minuet untill they hit the water of the Seine and drift along the current, borne away to where-ever the river wills them. And then will come winter. Bitter cold. "Now is the winter of our discontent…" Richard III. Such marvelous words, from a man who could create heroes and monsters that have stood the test of centuries. I'm so tired. Tired of thinking, tired of feeling, just plain tired! I want so much… I ache for the wanting of it all… for everything that I know now that I shall never have.

Christine:

He brought me back. After all those dreadful threats of keeping me forever, he brought me back to the Opera. I don't understand him! He never even touched me after I gave him back the mask, not even to help me out of the boat. He barely even said two words the whole of the journey back, only telling me to be careful, that the stairs were a bit slippery here and there. Then he turned me over to Madame Giry.

Oh, Madame Giry! Her face was very carefully devoid of any emotion upon seeing my dishevelment and the redness of my eyes. What she must have suspected! But she ushered me into her bedchamber and shut the door. I heard her voice, whispering, urgent, angry and accusing. And his, tired and… and hurt! I very nearly went out there, to defend him. What a mad thought- as if the Phantom of the Opera would need defending from a ballet rat… because even after last night, that is all I am. A ballet rat who turned into a diva overnight. I have no illusions that I won't go back to the chorus, at least for now. The next production, I may be moved up to a small singing role. But it will take me years to do again what I did last night.

Last night. Everything was perfect last night. And now- we are all paying for it this morning. I wish I had the courage to go out there and take his hands and tell him that it doesn't matter. But I don't. And I shall never see him again, I know that. For how could we go back to the comfortable routine of teacher and student after last night? We can't I know we can't, and I am driving myself insane trying to find a way in which we could. I want everything to be as it was! Is that so wrong, so childish a wish?

And even as I ask that of myself, I know it for the lie it is. If it weren't for that… that… face- I wouldn't want things to be as they were. I would welcome the fact that he is a man and no Angel, and with open arms. But now I don't know what to do and I don't know what I want. I just feel this overwhelming ache- I'm not even certain who I ought to feel sorrier for: myself, for letting my wild imagination get the better of me; or for him, because of what having that face must have cost him. And I can't even summon up the courage to open the door and to appologise. Does that make _me_ a monster?

The Wisest Hour:

And so, two souls wandered, lost in the darkness of their own doubt. The Opera House, shrine to music and to magnificence, slept, like a great dozing cat in the center of Paris, oblivious to the plots and pageants that ravelled and unravelled, like so much spun sugar candy. The solitary figure stood on the roof till dawn glimmered on the edge of the eastern sky, still as a statue- heart battered, but still beating. Three o'clock in the morning had come and gone, and with it, had come that most precious and treacherous of notions, Hope. The wisest hour of the night had offered counsel, and he heard, in the wind and in the song of the stars, to not abandon Hope, for it had not abandoned him. And, resolved, he returned to his home five levels beneath the Opera House, to prepare himself to take the leap- he had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Faint heart never won fair lady, and his heart, so starved of love- the giving and the receiving of love, could hold the empire of the world. Everything had been washed new in that hour of three o'clock, and he was ready.

She allowed herself to be cossetted and put to bed like a child, and like a child, she sang herself to sleep. That sweet old song that she had trusted even as she had trusted his voice. And she told herself as she drifted off, that things would turn out all right in the end, for she truly believed that. When she slept, she dreamed of him, chained and disheveled- his clothes in tatters, and his back criss-crossed with scars. She woke with a start and knew that she had to make things right between them. He _was_ chained, down there in the dark, even if he did not realize it. The darkness bound him, as surely as those chains had. What light was there, in the darkness, that he did not have to make for himself? Perhaps, just perhaps, in her sleep-ridden mind, she realized that _she_ was the light he so desperately craved.

A/N:

There it is... I hope you enjoyed and I've started working on the following chapters of All Through The Night... so there should be some more coming soon. If you need a fix, though read my other Phantom pieces- Fairy Tales and For What It's Worth... or go to and look up my original stories on there.  
Thanks again

K.S.


	9. The Spirit Gently Stealing

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa! _It's been an unforgivably long time since I updated this, and I just hope that everyone will be understanding. I'm still alive and working on "All Through The Night" as you can see... and I will continue to work on both this piece and "For What It's Worth" my other Phantom fic._

_Please, please please Review!  
K.S,_

_**The Spirit Gently Stealing**_

**Christine**:

"Miss Daae will be performing the role of Serafino, the mute." The announcement made my blood run cold. After I had single-handedly saved their opera, they did this to me. But of course they would. Carlotta was a name- I was a jumped-up chorus girl. Don't think I misunderstood the looks the managers were giving me, and turning upon poor Raoul de Chagny. They thought we were lovers! The idea would be rather insulting if it weren't so ridiculous!

And so we rehearsed- I felt like a puppet being jerked by her strings, inept hands tangling me up. And I had to learn Carlotta's score… for the simple fact that Reyer came to me after the announcement and whispered a rather unusual warning to me.

"I've made a copy of the role. Learn it; you never know what might happen in this place. And, mam'selle, let's keep this to ourselves. No need to bother the managers with the idea of an understudy." He patted my hand and winked! I never even contemplated the idea that stuffy old Reyer might have a sense of humor. These past days have been an education that things and especially people are never truly what they seem. Reyer can have a sense of humor, and Madame Giry has soothed my hurt feelings- she is as mysterious as ever, but she has been so much gentler since my encounter with the Phantom….

And so, day by day, I stood by, silent, as Carlotta paraded about, making sneering comments about _my_ morals, all the while sneaking off to her reclaimed dressing room to cavort with Piangi. After an aborted visit to the chapel, where I called to him; there was no answer, and so I did not return. I practiced the part of the Countess that Reyer had given to me alone, without instruction. But I worked so hard at it; I knew that even without my Angel's tutelage, I still sang it better than La Carlotta.

But knowing that still didn't prevent me from crying myself to sleep at night. Is it any wonder when the Vicomte de Chagny came round, asking me to dinner, teasing me with chocolates, that I took the chocolates and laughed at his sallies? But behind it all, I was so terribly lonely for my Angel. I would catch myself humming the tune, and quickly silencing my rebellious tongue.

If only I could work up the courage- to either go to him, or to cut the very thought of him from my mind! But the thought of him, in that underground cavern, all alone was enough to wrench my heart. Yet I just didn't have the strength- I didn't have the strength to do either or… and so I just floated in a limbo while the world went by around me. I didn't have the strength… until he came to me.

**Erik**:

If only I had the strength. If only I had the strength to go to her- and beg her on my knees to end my suffering. But I'm a coward- I couldn't answer her when she called out to me, despairing, and now it is too late. I'm nothing more than a shadow, following her and making certain no ill befalls her.

Not that she has noticed, I stay far enough off so that she cannot sense my presence- she is far too sensitive for me to follow too closely. Her gilded gingerbread boy has not noticed anything amiss… not that he notices much as a rule, I suspect.

Oh, I ached for her though, having to face that bitch, Carlotta, in her seeming triumph. No matter, I shall soon wipe that sneering smirk off that toad's rouged faced… Ah yes, a toad in rouge and powder, croaking before Paris. Such an evocative image, one I think I shall have to bring to life.

Only once did I come out of my self-imposed exile- and that was for a very good reason. Joseph Buquet… The lecherous swine was always following the ballerinas- trying to get a good look at them in their skins, no doubt. Once he nearly cornered Christine, by herself, on the way back to the dormitories from the chapel. In I swooped between the vile stagehand and his unsuspecting prey. Christine went on her way, not knowing how close a brush with danger she'd had.

"Indulge in your filthy habits elsewhere. Christine Daae is off limits, Buquet… unless of course you have a death wish?" I said in my softest, most dangerous voice. I waited a moment, and was rewarded by the acrid stench of urine. Buquet had pissed himself! Hopefully I put the fear of God, the Devil and the Phantom in the bastard.

Passing through unseen corridors, I soon caught up with Christine. She was alone in the dormitories; the other young members of the _corps de ballet_ were enduring a late rehearsal. Keeping to the shadows, I spoke, "Be more careful, _cherie_. Buquet likes to come upon girls unawares, and he was following you till I intercepted him."  
"Where… where are you? Show yourself!" Christine called out, and so I did- the white mask and the relative pallor of my face surrounded by the black shadows. When she barreled into me, she knocked the wind out of me, and I was even in more shock when she began to hit me with her little fists.

"How could you! How could you leave me to the wolves like that? I called for you, cried my eyes out and you still never came! I- I thought you cared, and here you only came to warn me about that foul stagehand?!" She was crying, and I could not tell if her tears were from real misery or plain and simple fury, or a combination of both. But how could I answer her accusations? Hadn't I tried to rationalize them to myself over and over again in the past month? She stopped hitting me and just allowed herself to cradle in my arms, weeping into my waistcoat.

"I… I was frightened, Christine. I thought you never wanted to see me again, and I didn't blame you for it." I trembled at her closeness.

"I never got to say that I was sorry. Please don't leave me alone like that ever again." They weren't words of love, but they were so sweet to my ears! I leaned my head down and rested the left side of my face, the unblemished side, on her hair. This had to be the most perfect moment of my life! She had seen my face, unmasked, and my temper at it's most uncertain- and still she stood, her arms wrapped about me, head tucked against my shoulder. All that was lacking was… a kiss… I leaned my head down, and she tilted her face upwards- close… she was _so_ close!

And then, "Christine!" It was that damned boy! We jumped apart, and she looked fearfully about her.

"I shall take my leave of you, Mam'selle… till next time, my angel." And as I let my voice fade away, I once again found refuge in the secret passage, where I could see her flushed face and the confused one of the boy.

"Who were you talking to, Christine? I thought I heard some man's voice."

"You know the acoustics of the building plays tricks on people, Raoul. No doubt you heard something from the stage or elsewhere." She replied coolly. Well, let the boy look for me to his heart's content- he won't find me, and now I know that Christine shan't give away my secret. And perhaps, just perhaps, hope isn't lost. I very nearly kissed her back there, and she didn't run away or scream or faint in my arms… maybe, just maybe, I will have my happily ever after.

_Post-Note_

_There you are... next is the disastrous performance of Il Muto, and the scene on top of the roof of the Opera. What will come to our hero and his lady... I'm not certain yet, but I aim to find out._

_Cheers_

_K.S._


	10. Though Sad Fate Our Lives May Sever

_Here is where things get rocky for our favorite Opera Ghost. But things must get worse before they can get better, or so I am told. Raoul isn't so much of a prat in this, though frankly, I find him a prat anyway... Christine does have a spine in this fic, but currently it's in embryo._

_Please review- I'm a review whore, as everyone knows.  
Enjoy-  
K.S_

_**Though Sad Fate Our Lives May Sever**_

**Christine**:  
"A disaster beyond you imagination." Those were his words to the managers, as reported to me by Meg. Strange, I have my very own spy in the Opera- how Meg would laugh at that! But it's true… he promised disaster, and that's what we're getting! One thing after another! First the interruption- oh God, his voice! Echoing through the auditorium- it was like the wrath of angels and demons together.

I couldn't help breathing out, "It's him!" I don't know if I was happy or terrified. Had he come to rescue me, or to damn me to hell?

Carlotta heard me, "Your part is silent, little toad." she snapped in that hateful tone she has so perfected, snapping me on the wrist with her fan. It stung enough to make me wince.  
But I had my revenge. Oh, how terrible that sounds! And yet, that is exactly what it was. I had called her a hateful toad once, squatting over the stage, spewing poison… and I had told my Angel. He remembered that off-hand complaint; how he did it I do not know- somehow Carlotta's voice transformed! It did not break, oh no, nothing so mundane as that! It suddenly and without warning descended from ear-shattering soprano to a baritone croak. It was horrid- it was magnificent. Carlotta immediately went into hysterics and fled from the stage, screeching and croaking alternately- Piangi at her heels like a big green frog. The managers were panicked, and sent me off to change into a gown from my boy's breeches.

Madame Giry followed, to help me get dressed. As she laced the old-fashioned corset, she spoke, "I did not ask you what happened the night of Hannibal, because I respected your privacy, and his. But now I must ask it of you- did he hurt you, in any way?"  
I turned, clutching the red rose that I knew he had sent, "No, Madame, it was the other way around, I hurt him. I took off the mask."  
I did not need to hear her shocked intake of breath to know her surprise, "And?"

"He was angry, but he did not touch me… What happened to him, Madame, that his face is… is like that?"

She did not answer, because that was when the screaming started- then grew into a roar of fear. What had happened this time?! I followed, snatching a red velveteen cloak to wrap over my state of half-undress. As I rushed forward through the corridors, Raoul de Chagny nearly barreled into me.

"Come, Christine. It's not safe. There's been an accident. A man's been hanged!"  
"Hanged? What- who?" I knew though- I knew before he said it.

"Some stagehand- Buquet or something the like. Come, let's get away from all this chaos." He put a comforting arm around my shoulder.

I felt my blood run cold. Joseph Buquet hanged! And what's worse, I was glad it happened. Glad! He'd stalked all the girls in the ballet, trying to see things he should not see and touch things he ought never be near. And he had hunted my Phantom, as surely as he had hunted any of the petite rats in the corps de ballet. But Raoul! How could he think this was an accident? Then another thought ground to the forefront of my mind- Raoul could be in danger! If the Phantom could do that to Buquet, what would he do to my poor friend who seemed to be besotted with me?  
"No, let's go to the roof. We'll be safe there."  
"Safe from what? Christine, what is all this mystery about? I want to know what's going on. Has someone hurt you?" He took my arm and looked at me, as if trying to figure out what had happened just by what was written on my face.  
"Why does everyone assume that I've been hurt?" I cried out, exasperated, then I answered him more calmly, "We'll be safe from the crowd, Raoul- no one will hear us up on the roof. I have something to tell you."

I told him everything, God forgive me. I told him of the Angel, and how he had come to me that night, of how I discovered that he was the Phantom… And I spoke of his face- of that terrible deformity which twisted my heart even as it turned my stomach. The words just tumbled forth like water over a dam. And Raoul was everything that was kind and considerate- though I'm not certain he believed me.

"But Christine, if this man… this thing… lives beneath the Opera- Why does he seem to run the Opera? How did he get there? I don't understand!"  
"Neither do I! I don't understand anything, except that he taught me to sing like an angel from Heaven! And I cannot forget that, no matter what else he has done. All these years, when I was alone in the world- he kept me from falling into despair. Oh, Raoul, I don't know what to do!" By that point I was crying.

Raoul gathered me up into his arms, stroking my hair, "Hush, Christine. Let me look after you. I love you; I've loved you since we were children at the seashores of Normandy." He said softly, gently, cradling me as if I were a child.

I said nothing, only cried harder. Wasn't this what I wanted? A knight in shining armor to rescue me from my indecision? The Opera was my gilded tower, and I the maiden who needed rescuing? But rescuing from whom has always been the question. And all I could hear was the steady, warm beat of Raoul's heart against my ears… I never caught the desperate sob of another who had heard all my foolish, frightened, ill-considered words.

**Erik:**

She told- of all the people in the world- she told _him_! They've gone back now, she's stopped crying, his arms around her, leading her back to the world of the Opera- away from the cold and the snow and the stars… away from me. I can see that she'll leave with him- content, happy, in love! In love with the beauty and wealth and normalcy that he offers.

She dropped the rose! Poor little thing- it's too beautiful to have been abandoned- not like me. Why am I surprised? No one has ever loved me… not after they've seen. I thought that she would be different. I thought that the bond between us was strong enough to sustain any blow- as pure and unbreakable as adamant. But it was as brilliant and brittle as the rhinestones that nearly choked Carlotta every time she performed.

I killed a man tonight! Because he threatened Christine! Even after my warning, he shadowed her movements, as if his filth was drawn to her purity if only for the chance to sully it. I wouldn't have it! Buquet's had ballerinas by force before. I had to do something. It didn't matter that he was hunting me- I could have evaded him easily. But the thought of him hurting Christine… like that… it made me sick. The thought of _anyone_ hurting her like that still makes me sick… And I'd kill him again if I had to. I've not killed a man since that night so long ago… I don't like it- no matter what people will think of me - I don't kill needlessly.

I can't breathe- I'm here, on the rooftop of the world and I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs even to cry anymore. Why, oh why did she tell him? He is everything I am not- he is younger than I, conveniently rich, and handsome as Apollo here above me. And he seems determined to protect her from whatever it is that frightens her. I thought… God, was it only just a few days ago? I thought that she would dismiss him out of hand- that finally- my face did not matter- that she loved me anyway… But no, I frighten her because of my face; she didn't say a word about my horrid temper… she told him, in excruciating detail, of my face… _She called me a monster_.

I will accept that I am a madman, and I will accept that I am a fool. But I will not- can not accept that I am a monster. I am a man, like other men. I have just been denied any sort of happiness for so long that the spring has snapped and I cannot go back to suffering in silence. If I must lose her, then all Paris will know my pain, and I swear by whatever gods there be, _Paris herself shall weep with me_.

_**Author's Note:  
**I'm sorry, I've taken so long to write this! But good news! I have the rest of the story planned out- if not written out, and I can tell you that there will be four more chapters after this one. Please, please, please review! It really does make my day!  
Warmest Regards,_  
K.S.


	11. While The Moon Her Watch Is Keeping

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially KyrieofAccender and Mominator who reviewed Chapter 10- with this chapter, I'm hoping to receive 50 reviews for "All Through The Night" Please, please please don't disappoint me!  
Warmest Regards_

_K.S._

****

_**While the Moon Her Watch is Keeping**_

_December 31__st__ - At the masquerade ball_

**Christine**:

It was beautiful, like some child's belief in fairy tales come to life. It was wondrous, but I really wish that I had been able to choose my own dress. Not that this pink confection isn't lovely… but I'm not certain I wanted to be a fairy princess tonight.  
Too much like what my life has been of late. I wanted to be something exotic, or even something dangerous- Carlotta is supposed to be Cleopatra, I suppose; and Madame Giry looks like some mysterious Eastern lady. And my Meg is a swan…. Or an angel, I can't decide. But I am a fairy princess, and Raoul is my knight in shining armor. And I am utterly and completely miserable. Oh how I hate being decked out in pink rosebuds and yards of pink tulle!

I had thought up the most outrageous costume… black, enveloping me from head to toe, save for a bronze mask covering my face and the top of my head… and what do you ask would this face be? None other than Medusa, with snakes for her hair! _That_ would have sent a message to a certain someone. But no one comes to the Bal Masque with the idea of a grotesque costume in mind- no we come to see and be seen, and underneath all the gaiety there is a knife-edge of worry. I am sick with it. Will he come? Will I even know him? Will Raoul leave me alone long enough for me to steal a moment with my teacher?

Raoul picked up on my apprehension, and the person behind it, if not the cause, "Don't fear, dearest. This Phantom won't come to the party. And if he does have the temerity, I'll make certain he does not get near to you."

It was all I could do just to nod, and not to flee to the chapel, or someplace where no one else would follow me, question me. Raoul doesn't even notice my nervous habit of twisting my skirt fabric in my hands, at least he doesn't notice till the satin is rumpled and wrinkled. And my teacher, my poor teacher… I wonder what he has done all these months. Because, despite what happened in the dormitories just before the disaster of _Il_ _Muto_- I couldn't bring myself to go to him. I couldn't! He'd killed a man, and all I could think of was how that man had deserved it.

I may seem vague and inclined to daydream, but I'm not so naïve as to not know what Buquet was capable of. And no matter how terrible it is of me, I cannot find it in my heart to be sorry that he's dead.

Have I mentioned yet that I hate pink? That I hate not being able to make a single decision- not being allowed to? It's a relief and a burden… and I wish- oh how I wish! That I was able to tell Raoul 'no'.

He's here! What shall I do, he's here! Dressed as Red Death of all things. Oh God… how he frightens me… oh God, how I want him! But I don't have the words for it… And now Raoul's abandoned me- for who knows what reason and I am alone, and the Phantom draws me like a lodestone.  
"Christine," He said it so softly, the words almost mouthed rather than spoken. The crowd in white and black and gold faded away, and there was only the two of us on the _Grande Escalier_. I ascending and he descending… what a reversal of characters.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, looking into his eyes. Oh, his eyes! From behind that horrid mask, his eyes blazed like the sea in September. They moved over my face, as if trying to memorize each feature… then they swept down and caught the flash of diamonds.

The air of longing barely suppressed distorted, twisted into a grimace of fury- he grasped the ring and with a sharp tug, snapped the filigreed chain. I gasped, not from physical pain, but from the look of utter anguish that had crossed his face. He knew exactly what that ring symbolized, and who had given it to me.

"Your chains are still mine. You belong to _me_." He hissed, like an enraged lion. Then he raced back up the stairs and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

"Wait! Please… Wait!" I had just enough time to call out when I heard Raoul race by me and follow the Phantom before the strange trap-door closed. And then all hell seemed to break loose. I knew I could not follow, and Madame Giry had disappeared. I grabbed Meg by the wrist and hurried as fast as that blasted dress would allow me away from that scene of confusion.

"Christine, what on earth is going on? Was that… him? He looked so… _handsome_! How could he be the Phantom if he's handsome?" Meg gasped as we made our way as far from the _Grande Escalier_ as possible. To the chapel, where we sank onto the ledge of the angel window. "Please, you can tell me! Why is everyone being so mysterious? If that man was the Phantom… then why…" she trailed off at the look on my face.

"Oh, Meg, I'm such a fool! I really thought- I don't know what I thought…" I wiped angry tears from my face. "I won't ever be free of him, Meg. What he said, it was true… I belong to him… just as he belongs to me. Somehow, our souls are intertwined- like briars- twisted together with thorns and with roses. I won't ever be free of him, and Meg, the terrible thing is- _I'm not certain I want to be_."

"Christine- what about the Vicomte? I daresay he will disagree with you on that count."  
I laughed, bitterly, "Poor, dear, sweet Raoul. He'll be furious, no doubt. I need to get away, Meg. I need to have someplace to think where I'm not troubled by either of them. There has to be some way of averting a tragedy."

"You think this will end in tragedy?"

"If we're not careful, it will. It almost has a set, stony quality to it. As if we're all a part of a story- or an opera! And we must all act our parts. How on earth did I end as the tragic heroine- it should be you!" I impulsively hugged the sister of my soul.

"Oh, no, not me. I laugh too much. Tragic heroines only laugh maniacally. Think of _Anna Bolena_. She went to her execution laughing."

"How can you remember such things?" I asked her, laughing myself. Which was undoubtedly her aim.

"It's a gift. But if you want to get away… where to? At least, where to that neither will follow you?"

"I don't know, Meg. Perhaps the only place I'd be able to escape the pair of them is the moon." I sighed. "I'm just so tired, Meg. I thought… I really thought that I wouldn't have to choose between them. I wanted so much for things to go on as they have. Is that so terrible?"

"Not terrible, but foolish, perhaps. Let's just sit in here a while. I doubt anyone will come to bother us here for a good long while yet." Meg said, settling herself as comfortably as possible. "There's one good thing about these newfangled bustle pillows- we don't have to search about for cushions!" We laughed merrily, as only two girls on the threshold of being grown-up can. How I had missed just being able to laugh! And there we sat, Meg doing her utmost to cheer me up, for half the night, till Madame Giry came looking for the pair of us.

**Erik:**

I couldn't help but show up to the party. I must be going mad- I brought them _Don Juan Triumphant_. I know it was foolish, but how else could I have it performed? Especially with Christine as my Aminta- the perfect heroine. She will leave, I know it… she will run away with her Vicomte and never spare me another thought.

She was there with him, tonight. Dressed in a frothy pink confection, she looked like a candied flower. I never really thought about Christine wearing pink- it seems too insipid a shade for her. I wonder if she chose the dress: she seems too self-conscious in it to have chosen it herself. I let my eyes range over her every curve. If the dress does one thing, it accentuates her curves, and whittles her waist down to a point where I could span it with my hands. Oh God, how I want her.  
She was supposed to be my Angel- in saving her from despair, I was saving myself. Because I had someone to care for, someone to love. And I… I can't let her go. I tried to memorize each feature, treasuring every expression that crossed her face. And then I saw it. An engagement ring! She wore the flashing circle of diamonds on a chain that hung just over her breasts. Engaged! She's engaged to the Vicomte! I snapped the chain from her neck and took the ring, before hissing at her, "Your chains are still mine, you belong to _me_!" And then, I couldn't bear it anymore, I turned from her and made my spectacular exit. The Vicomte followed me into the mirrored chamber that lies hidden beneath the Grande Escalier. I built it for… I don't know if I did it for fun or for the hell of it… but that boy nearly lost his life for his arrogance. And he would have, had not Madame Giry pulled him out at the last moment.

It's not fair!  
Why must I always end alone and unwanted? Why must I be the monster, the dragon, from whom the princess must be rescued? _She told him_! Antoinette Giry told him of how she found me- of my shameful captivity- of how I had to kill to free myself. As if that noble clod could understand what it is to be starved, beaten, exhibited like an animal till all you can do is build castles in the air- what you would do if you were free. I could not bear to listen to any more of her betrayal of my darkest secrets; I fled to the one place that had not been ruined for me- the chapel.

But Christine was already there, with Meg Giry. They were talking about me… It seemed that everyone was talking about me tonight! She was crying. I'd made her cry, again! But she has made me cry more than anyone else since my mother. So, I suppose in that, we're even.

"I won't ever be free of him, Meg. What he said, it was true… I belong to him… just as he belongs to me. Somehow, our souls are intertwined- like briars- twisted together with thorns and with roses. I won't ever be free of him, and Meg, the terrible thing is- _I'm not certain I want to be._" She said to her friend, who comforted her, and told her that everything would be all right. I hope desperately that everything will turn out all right in the end. Because, without Christine, I am just the monster they think me. I never had any reason to be anything other than the Phantom of the Opera, nothing except Christine. And she is everything. I waited with them, keeping a watchful eye over my Angel and her friend, envying Meg Giry in her closeness with Christine, and in her ability to laugh at the strangest things. _Anna Bolena_ indeed. But I heard them whispering of the cemetery where both their fathers are buried. Christine said that she hadn't been there in a year  
"Well, you should go to his grave. I've not been to my own Papa's grave in the longest time. Do you want me to come with you?" Meg was asking Christine. My ears trembled for her answer. Perhaps… just perhaps, this would be my opportunity to talk to her… Just to talk to her, without any more pretense between us, or the Vicomte hovering over her like a miasma. But only if Meg Giry did not accompany her.

"No, Meg. I need to do this by myself. Maybe I'll be able to think straight outside the Opera." Christine replied, a sad smile on her face. "We've all been acting enough like characters in an opera as it is. What's one more little eccentricity in a performer?" She asked, mockingly imitating Carlotta.

Yes. Now all I had to do was figure out how I was going to talk to her, alone… in the cemetery. Maybe… There are still some roses left- I shall leave my calling card before she leaves.

_A/N: Yes, I know… but the story is winding down, and I think it a rather amusing thought that Christine wouldn't want to wear pink. And I am aware that I repeated certain phrases, but they are more to anchor certain times together in the plot- signposts as it were._

_Please review,  
Warmest regards,_

_K.S._


	12. Hill and Vale In Slumber Sleeping

_**Hill and Vale In Slumber Sleeping **_

Graveyard Scene- "Wishing you were somehow here again"; and the sword fight.  
A/N: This scene is bit of a departure from the most recent chapters, as it is only depicted from Christine's point of view- I always thought that this scene is where we really see Christine at her most vulnerable, and yet there is the promise of a woman of strength behind the waffling adolescent.

Enjoy,

K.S.

_**Christine:**_

The carriage ride to the cemetery was absolutely silent. The driver did not chatter on as he usually does; he was unusually receptive to my somber mood. There was snow on the ground and the world looked like it was sleeping under a pale blanket. I gripped the roses that I had found on my bureau- crimson roses, leaving no doubt as to who had left them. I can't think straight… I need to talk to Papa. Even though he is not there to answer me, just talking to him will help. I've almost decided what I'm going to do… almost.  
But since it sounds utterly insane in my head- how will it sound when spoken aloud? And so passed the carriage ride, in silence and in doubt. That's all I ever do- doubt. I doubt myself, I doubt my Angel, I doubt Raoul… Everyone's motives and everyone's sanity… My life is a merry-go-round of madness.

The moment I was out of the carriage, the driver was gone, probably to shelter the horses out of this bitter January wind. Of course I took my time on my way to Papa's grave… it gave me time to iron out my thoughts.  
Oh, how I miss him! Papa would know just what to say to me! "What does your heart tell you, my little one? Most times, you need to listen to your head…" here he would tap at my temple, "But when it's the matters of the heart… what does the head know?" He could always make me laugh, my Papa. I trusted myself when he was still with me… I lost that trust until my Angel gave it back to me. I need to talk to him as much as I need to talk to my father.  
Looking up at Papa's tomb- that cold marble and wrought iron monstrosity! I knew what I must do. I should be proud of myself- I've made one decision with no outside interference! It almost makes me breathe more freely.  
I shall go to _him_, in his home. Just to talk… we've not talked, really talked, since before my debut all those months ago! As soon as I pay my respects to my Papa… to dear Papa, who still has the power to help me.

And then the music started, and I knew the reason why the carriage ride was so quiet. It was him! He was here, with me, and he was singing to me, so sweetly, like before, as if nothing had ever happened to create a chasm between us.

"Come out! Please- I know that it's you… we need to speak. No more recriminations, no more threats. It is just the two of us here… I don't want to lose you, Angel!" I was calm until the last- it seemed as if it were pulled out of me, like a banshee's wail.

He stepped out from behind my father's tomb, wrapped in his customary black cloak- a fedora perched rakishly on his head, shading the mask. "I would never deny you, Mademoiselle Daae. Shall I offer my congratulations upon the occasion of your engagement?" His voice was nasty with cynicism.  
I swallowed hard and shook my head, "I fully intend on breaking it off. I should have never encouraged him in the first place. But as you well know, I have a terribly lack of spine when it comes to such things."

He moved close to me, a gloved hand outstretched. It lifted my hair and ran down the column of my neck, "No, I distinctly feel the presence of a backbone… it's just hidden under all that hair." His smile was ironic. The one I gave him in reply must have looked unbelievably relieved. "What do you want to speak with me about, Christine?"

"I… I wanted to tell you… that…." my courage was draining from me by the moment as I looked into those changeable sea-colored eyes… " That… I _hate_ pink!" All the breath left my lungs at this… shocking confession.  
He was obviously taken aback by my admission, and then he began to chuckle… The Phantom of the Opera was standing alone with me, in a cemetery, laughing at my daring admission. "Then, _ma cher_, you shall never have to wear pink again. I would deck you out in scarlet and sapphire, silver and the palest gold, if you would let me." He murmured. I remembered our aborted kiss all those months ago… I wondered what it would be like were he to close that short space- that infinite space, and actually kiss me. It would be hot and sweet, surely! Like hot sweet cider, mulled with cinnamon and cloves and a whisper of oranges mixed in. He moved like one of those great cats at the zoological gardens, a tiger perhaps- even his eyes were like a cat's! Green-gray irises rimmed with gold, and his eyelashes would make Carlotta envious, they are so thick and dark. All these thoughts tumbled through my star-struck brain as he closed the gap between us and I closed my eyes; my lips parted of their own volition.

I could feel his breath upon my face, he was so close! We must have heard the horseman at the same time, for we leapt apart, guilty as sweethearts discovered by a parent. Only this was worse. It was Raoul.

"Away from her, you monster!" He shouted, his sword drawn almost as soon as he was off the steaming white horse. "Christine, _run_!" But I couldn't, I was frozen to the spot as my Angel, my Phantom, drew his own sword and they met with a clash of steel. He was good- he must have studied how to go about it- and this was no sparring or stage-fight: This was real and would end only when blood was spilt. I couldn't speak, couldn't even cry out… I just stood there, watching two men try to kill one another over me. My Angel bloodied Raoul first, but they didn't stop… I took my eyes from the battle long enough to throw-up. It's not so much the sight of blood that makes me ill, it's the smell of it. I can't even eat meat that isn't burnt to a crisp… and these French adore steaks that look up from the plate and start lowing at you.  
But the coppery scent of it nearly made my eyes roll back, even though I'd emptied my stomach of what little it had in it. They were closer now, much closer, flashing silver blades and then suddenly, I will never know how it happened, Raoul gained the advantage. He knocked away his opponent's sword, and made to deliver a final, deadly blow.

"Raoul, stop!" I called out. I don't think he heard me at first, but something propelled me to his side, plucking at the blade in his hand. "Please, Raoul… Not like this. Raoul, please. Let's just go." I pried the sword from his hand and staggered back with it- the weight more than I could bear. "No more blood. Please. I…" I don't remember anything else until I woke, lying in my own bed, with Madame Giry and Meg at my side, wiping my face with a cold cloth.

One look told me that Raoul was waiting outside the door, a contemplative look on his face.  
"Oh, Madame. I don't want to talk to him! Raoul would have killed him out there… I feel sick at the thought of it… Please, just make Raoul go away. I can't even visit my father's grave without them tugging at me like little boys fighting over a toy! I just want to be alone! For once in my life, I want to be left alone!" I was weeping as I rose and fled the dormitory. Raoul made as if to follow me, but he was stopped by Meg. I went to the only place I knew I would be undisturbed- the chapel. I lit the candle and began to sing under my breath… the song… the lullaby, in hopes that it would comfort me as it has always done. But at that moment, all I could think of was the last verse… and how suddenly it sang to me of death and loss.

_Love to thee my thoughts are turning_

_All through the night_

_All for thee my heart is yearning_

_All through the night_

_Though sad fate our lives may sever_

_Parting will not last forever_

_There's a hope that leaves me never_

_All through the night._

But it was more than that… It wasn't just death and parting that was mentioned, but of hope… And I think I found the strength that I'd been wanting in the cemetery. I stood, brushed my skirt and made ready to leave the chapel. All I needed was to fetch a wrap- it's always cold in the cellars.

Raoul was in the doorway. I should have known, but I foolishly hoped that I could avoid any confrontation. Oh how I dreaded it. I knew what he was here for, what he wanted me to do, and I could not bear the thought.

"Christine. You're not to go anywhere alone, not until after the performance."

"So you're going to go through with this scheme? I won't do it." That spine I thought had been in abeyance was beginning to get a little stronger.  
"Christine, darling, you have to. The whole plan hinges on the fact that you are to perform! You're just over-wrought… What did that monster do at the cemetery before I arrived?"

"I'm not over-wrought. And he has _never_ done anything to harm me. Rest your heart on that score."

"While he lives, he will haunt us until we are dead and buried, Christine! We must do this. For all our sakes." Raoul put his arms upon mine and tried to pull me into an embrace. I jerked back, horrified.

"I will not be a party to murder. And that is what you plan. Cold-blooded murder. No. I will not do this. If he dies- the moment one gendarme takes aim at him- I will leave and you will never see me again." My stand taken, I left him speechless in the chapel.

_I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter… Two more to come! My tale is winding down to a close, and I hope that my few and faithful readers will stay on the ride till the end. Remember, keep your arms and legs in the gondola at all times, we do not wish to tempt the Siren.  
Please Review, my birthday is Saturday, and reviews are the best presents a girl can get._

_Warmest Regards, K.S._


	13. A Hope That Leaves Me Never

_**A Hope that Leaves me Never**_

**Don Juan Triumphant**

**Christine:**

I can't bear it! They nearly killed one another back there. And it's all my fault. It's all my fault that we are so far into this… madness that I don't know how to climb out of the pit. And now I must do as Raoul tells me, and go onstage to trap the Phantom! But it won't work out like that. It won't- he's too clever. _And I don't want him to be caught_.

Madame Giry came to me, before the performance began, and spoke with me. She was very kind, and very understanding. But she didn't tell me any more than she ever has- it drives me to distraction that after everything- she still does not trust me! I suppose it doesn't matter- I can scarcely trust myself.  
And now there is nothing for me to do but let Madame Giry lace up the corset to this scandalous costume; and let Madame Felix paint me with rouge and powder. I stared at the girl in the mirror; I wasn't certain I even knew her anymore, so strange and unlike me did she look.

"Get out." I suddenly could not stand to be in this room with all these people- dressers, hairdressers, everyone pushing in, wanting to see the girl who would be walking out onstage, into this infernal trap. I don't know what was worse, the looks from those who thought I was not only the Vicomte's mistress, but the Phantom's as well; or the ones who looked at me in pity, having some idea of what was to happen out there… And I could not stand it anymore. "Everyone! Get out! I want to be utterly alone, now! Until curtain." They all stood, shocked and amazed, "Didn't you hear me? Everyone out!" I was shouting by this point, in the grips of a temper I didn't realize I had- I threw a vase full of orchids that some marquis had sent to me- and I didn't care.

And when they had all hurriedly filed out of the dressing room, I just sat there, staring at a candle, and wondered what in the wide world I could do to stop what surely would happen this night.

That sly little voice I so often heard, and tried to ignore, spoke in her amused, condescending little way. "_Why don't you just leave? Get out of your paint and costume and disappear into the night? Leave him! Leave them both! Go to London or Vienna, or Milan… voyage across the western ocean and enchant those brash Americans. You can do it, Christine Daae. If only you had a little backbone! End this in your own way… or not at all. Because they will fight to the death to possess you. But wouldn't it be nice, just for once, to possess yourself?"_

"I don't know how…" I whispered back to her, in defeated tones.

"_Of course you don't. But if you ever hope to do so, you must either be free of them both, or choose one. But it must be you; _I_ cannot do it for you_." And she looked so sad that my eyes teared up, and as I wiped them away, I saw that I had only been talking to my reflection, and imagining that she had answered me back.

A quick, furtive knock at my door, and a muffled voice told me that the opera had begun; and they would need me in ten minutes. I sighed, took a drink of water, stood, squaring my shoulders and I told my reflection, "I choose _me_. But I must sing- I cannot run from my last obligation here. And how else can I say goodbye?" I asked her; but she just looked back and said, "Fare thee well, Christine Daae." I turned and saw her no more. Smoothing the skirt of my costume, I went to the door, and opened it, readying myself for what would be, no matter what I decided, my last opera at the Populaire.

_One hour later:_

It has been so quiet- there has been no sign of the Phantom. The intermission is over, and Raoul had come to see me in my dressing room, bringing armed guards with him… Does he not realize that if the Phantom had wanted to spirit me away, he'd come to me from within the dressing room, not without? Foolish Raoul. But soon, so soon, the opera will be over, and I will vanish, like the moon on a cloudy night. I will take a cab to the train station and leave Paris- but not fleeing it like a frightened child. And even as the opera spins out, like the fairy gold in the stories, I think that I would like to see him, one last time. If only to say good bye… or perhaps that I am sorry. But the curtain is rising on the final act, and I will go out there, sing that outrageous love song with poor, portly Piangi, trying so hard not to laugh at his dreadful pronunciation and at the utter absurdity of clasping myself ardently to him during that duet which should be sung in voices meant to set pulses and hearts racing. In short, my Angel should be the one singing it! Oh what a strange and wonderful event _that_ would be. But it will never happen. He is much too clever. And now, it begins: The last act.

**Erik:**  
And now it begins: The last act. I don't know what else to do- I watched her from behind the mirror during the intermission. After she had practically shoved the Vicomte out of the room, she'd opened a valise and began to pack. She did it so quickly and quietly, without the feverish energy she would have done if she were running away with the Vicomte. She hadn't said anything to him about this! In fact, the valise had been hidden from him! Was she planning on running away _without_ him? The question was absurd.

But I couldn't think of that now- now I was ready- I had the Don Juan costume on: and it suited me much better than its twin did Piangi. It didn't take much to put the fool out of commission… I don't _think_ I killed him. It doesn't matter now… Christine and my debut await. I step out onto the stage, and raise my voice up in song… this is my swan song, you see- for I don't expect to live through the night.

She turned, startled, and our gazes locked. Hopefully, she is the only one to recognize me. I do want to survive to the end of the song. But she didn't scream and fly from the stage. Oh no, my little nightingale is a true actress- this latest development did not seem to phase her at all.

And then- I lose everything in the music, in the story. I'm not Erik, I'm not the Angel of Music, and I'm not the bloody damn Phantom of the Opera- I _am_ Don Juan, and I've finally felt the curse of love's sting. This is the only way- lost as I am in music, she is still Christine… and I know… I know that if she can't love me, I am really and truly lost. This really is the point of no return…  
Oh God! Her voice is the most glorious thing I will ever hear, and when I am in hell, I can comfort myself with the thought that out of my fancy I created an angel with crystal wings. She sings my words with such passion! As if she really meant them. And, just in this moment, I can pretend she does. My last moment of make-believe- Here on this stage I can pretend that I am wickedly handsome, suave Don Juan, and that she loves me, mask or no. I'm done telling myself that it's not real, not anymore. I want it to be real so much… so much!

And now, the song is over, and she's followed the staging religiously- we're standing on the bridge, and she is in my arms. And I can scarcely breathe for wanting her- knowing that any moment I could be shot, dying, alone… Always alone! I can't bear it, not any longer. I have to... I have to…

"Christine! Please… I… don't leave me." I finally whisper, "Please don't leave me. Save me, only you can. I lo…" She didn't let me finish. Her eyes were brimming over with tears, and she put one slim white hand to my face, to my lips. I nearly cried at the feel of her satin fingers just brushing against my skin, stilling my voice. Then those tearful eyes turned hard and the mask and wig were swept away, leaving me exposed before all of Paris!

I can't breathe! All I can hear now is the screaming! The cries of monster and beast and the most hated of all- _freak_! I can't even think- the only thing that runs through my head is "escape or die!" Then anger begins to blossom, like some great stinking flower of the jungle- and I want revenge- revenge against them all; and then my sword is in my hands and all hell breaks loose.

The chandelier- the beautiful, incomparable symbol of light and beauty- how fitting that it should fall with me! It will look like the very heavens are descending- a veritable constellation of falling stars… and it will distract them from my flight. My flight- and that of my own personal _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_. I will not leave with her- not now- I want my happy ending, and I am going to have it!

_Author's Note: I'm sorry this has taken so long, but real life, as you all must know. I've used so many literary and mythological references that even I am a bit dizzy with them, and I shamelessly stole my favorite line from my other fic, "Fairy Tales"_

_(Constellation of falling stars.) Please review; I need something to brighten my days._

_Warmest Regards,_

_K.S._


	14. Parting Will Not Last Forever

_Finally- inevitably! We come to the end of the journey. I am sad to see the end of "All Through the Night", but happy that I could bring it to a satisfactory close. As to whether or not it has a happy ending or my lovers remain star-crossed, you will have to read on to see. Thanks so much to all those who reviewed and set this story as a favorite. My Erik in this is mostly Webber's stage Phantom, with a couple of traits from the 1925 and 2004 films. And now, the finale:_

_K.S._

_**Parting Will Not Last Forever**_

Erik:

And so I fled, like a wounded animal, back to my den, my lair upon the underground lake. She was crying, pleading with me to let her go, but I was so angry! So hurt and angry and uncomprehending… but I could not harm her.

I couldn't tear my gaze from her as she came from the bedroom wearing the wedding dress. She is so beautiful! But her eyes were cold and there was no smile on her sweet face, only fear.

"Are you going to rape me?" The words were blunt and she looked me straight in the eye.

"_No_! No… I would never… I've never… Christine, I love you! I wouldn't hurt you- I can't... I'm not a monster… I'm _not_!" I reached a hand out to touch her hair- and she flinched away… I love her more than anything and she cannot bear to have me near her. My heart can't take much more. I turned from her to look at the mannequin- _That_ Christine always smiled at me- she never turned away in horror. I took the veil from the artificial curls, and touched it to my face a moment before I set it down on the crown of her head, running a hand over her illusion-clad hair. She drew away and I could have cried at the disgust that was written plainly on her face.

"Perhaps you would have preferred it if I'd let them shoot me! What would you have done, Christine, if those gendarmes your Vicomte had stationed all about the theatre had taken aim and fired? As my blood spread over the stage, would you have run? Of course you would have. It would be too much to hope that I could die in your arms. No one has ever… touched me without intending to cause me hurt. And you're no different. You'll never love me, will you? All I ever wanted was to be loved for myself… and I love you so! But it's not enough. It's _never_ enough."

The words were torn out of me- great chunks of my heart bloodied by every flinch and expression of disgust. Everything has gone wrong! And here I am, devoid of every trapping of humanity- the monster she fears, the monster everyone wants dead. Even I want me dead, if she cannot love me. I know she cannot… I tried so hard, to be good, to be worthy of loving her. But she played her part- she betrayed my trust as much; if not more so, than I had betrayed hers'. They planned to kill me, and she had participated- she took to the stage, setting me up to be trapped!

I couldn't hide the blank misery in my voice when I said, "I always knew that I was not worthy of your love, Christine. What never crossed my mind was that you might be unworthy of mine."

Her expression changed- she looked as if I had slapped her. She reached out, as if to take my hand, but dropped it suddenly as we heard the shout from the other side of the gate. It was her candy-faced Vicomte.

"Oh dear, oh dear. Your hero has come to rescue you. Whatever shall I do? Dare you walk into my parlor, Monsieur?" I snapped my fingers and the portcullis began to rise.

"Raoul," she breathed the name as if it was a prayer, and she rushed into his arms. I hunched over a moment, breathless with the pain that tender embrace caused. I should have let him kill me... Isn't this the culmination of my nightmare: Christine dressed as a bride, leaning into his embrace? _His_ face in her hair, _his_ arms about her waist.

"Monsieur, welcome to my little party. I'm afraid you are not dressed appropriately, however. This is, after all, a formal occasion, which requires you to at least wear a necktie!" So saying, I looped the Punjab lasso over the boy's head, and with a flick of my wrist, suspended it high above his head.

"No! No, please, let him go- oh God, you _are_ a monster!" She ripped the veil from her head, and stamped on it; as furious as she was terrified.

"Monster? _Monster_? Monster I may be, Christine, but I am no fool. I am human, like other men. Why must I be denied all happiness simply because... because of this?" I gestured to my face. "Why can't I have a sweetheart- a wife- a _lover_? Why must I live out my life abandoned, alone, unwanted? My nightmares have always been real, Christine... until you. And now I'm living my worst nightmare of all." I took the veil that she had flung to the floor and held it a moment, cradled it in my arms as if it were a living thing. That was what she thought of me- everything that I had given her, thrown back at me, crumpled and damaged. "But I will give you a choice, Christine. Our fate- all of ours, is in your hands…"

"What do you mean?" She was trying desperately not to cry, her eyes were glossy with tears that hadn't quite spilled over; fallen to her knees, the white gown spread about her like some exotic flower.

"This is true point of no return, Christine. You must _finally_ make a choice. If you choose to stay and marry me; I will return him to the surface, unharmed. If you wish to leave, I will take you home, then return and put both your sweetheart and myself out of our misery. I can't-" I couldn't finish… I had no idea what she would do.

"Why are you doing this?" She asked, inching towards me, still kneeling. I spun away from her. I don't want gentleness, I don't want pity! If I can't have her love, I'll content myself with her hate… but I cannot abide those blue eyes looking at me as if I were lost dog, starving for attention.

"You must choose!" I snapped it out, trying desperately not to cry myself. What is the point? This will end badly, no matter what happens!

"What happened to you?" Christine had picked herself up off the floor, and was taking tiny, hesitant steps toward me. "What did you endure to make you think this was the only way?"

"The only way? Christine, all I had to do was look into a _mirror_. Or into your eyes."

"You haven't looked into my eyes, not really. If you had…" She broke off on a sob.

"Christine- don't do it! My life isn't worth such a sacrifice!" The boy cried out, gagging at the end.

I closed my eyes. Then I heard her voice. She was humming as she stepped closer to me. The tune finally brought the tears out. As she touched my face, she sang, so quietly that surely I was the only one who could hear.  
"Love to thee my thoughts are turning

All through the night

All for thee, my heart is… yearning"

She spoke the last word on a whisper as she touched her lips to mine. I froze, completely and utterly shocked. Of all the outcomes I had envisioned, this hadn't even floated in the back of my mind. Her hands were on my face, touching everything; I could feel her tears dripping from her cheeks on my skin. And still she kissed me! And when she pulled back, she sucked in a gaspy breath and set her head on my shoulder. I was trembling like a frightened child; I didn't know what to do… And then she guided my lips back to hers, deeper this time, sweeter, fuller. I…I didn't know where to put my hands; they raced across her back, tangled in her hair, and finally, too weak and dizzy to hold on anymore, they fell to my side.

When she stepped back, the tears were drying on her face, and she smiled at me. She smiled. I touched just the tips of my fingers to my lips… I could hardly believe what she had done. And I couldn't kill her sweetheart; not now. The veil of madness had lifted. This had to have a properly _operatic_ ending, after all. I cut the boy loose. And then I heard them, distant, echoing, but there nonetheless. They were coming… coming for me. And they would cut down anyone they saw as a threat. I couldn't let that happen. Not to her. It didn't matter what happened to me, not now.

"You'll have to take the boat if you hope to avoid them. They're out for blood, this time… Go! Get out of here! Keep her safe, or damn you, I will…" My voice broke. They fled. She didn't even look back. That kiss was her goodbye.

I stumbled over to the music box… let it play as I mouthed the words… "Hide your face so the world will never find you…" My life, my whole life summed up in a jingling little refrain. And then I felt it. They were here. They had come for me… the most I could do was face death with dignity. I would die like a man, not a freak or a monster.

I turned, and there she was. She held the ring out. The ring I gave her, she had worn it while she kissed me, for the first and last time. She still held it out. I nodded and our hands touched, the ring slipping into my palm as I grasped her wrist, suddenly, desperately.

"Christine- I… I love you." She looked into my eyes as I told her; and with a terrible sob, she pulled free of my hand and hurried away. I slipped her ring onto my little finger- I couldn't lose it, not now. My stumbling feet found the veil that she had thrown down in her temper… I fell to my knees and began crying, great gasping sobs of "I love you!" Over and over again, like a broken toy- doomed to repeat one phrase for the rest of my life. She was gone, and was never ever coming back. I had gambled all and lost… but I couldn't hate her for it. Christine Daaé had given me the one bright moment in my life: the moment when I was loved, and she was mine.

I didn't even know someone was there till I felt the hand on my shoulder...

**Christine**:

He stumbled off. Surely, the Phantom of the Opera ought not stumble! He stalked, as sure-footed and graceful as the ghost everyone thought him to be. Even without the mask, he moved like one of those big cats at the zoological gardens. Till now.

It clicked. I realized that he stumbled. All that power, even his natural grace and angelic voice, had deserted him. And as I watched, he sobbed into the torn wedding veil that I had cast away. Much like him. It was not the cruelty which undid him, but my one act of kindness- which was perhaps the worst cruelty I could have shown him.

He should _not_ stumble! He should not weep so. My wrist ached where he had caught it, uttering that last pathetic plea. His eyes as he had told me that he loved me, so full of pain and desperate _hope_ that I could not bear it. I had pulled away and left him to kneel on the cold stone of the floor, shuddering at that final rejection. I still heard echoing cries of "I love you!"- Like the screams of angels reproaching me for my cruelty.

"Turn the boat around." The words were out of my mouth before I realized that I had said them.

"Christine?" Raoul asked, puzzled.

"I'm sorry, Raoul, so sorry. I convinced myself that I could go with you, and live happily ever after. But I can't. He needs me, just as I needed him for so long. I can't abandon him now, after he made this last sacrifice- letting me go. I can't do that to him." And in my voice there was steel that had never been there before! Raoul could not argue with that tone. He turned the boat and when we reached the raised portcullis, I sprang out of the gondola and waded towards the shore.

On the steps, I paused, trying to find words. "You'd best go, Raoul. Please. I-I really am very sorry." That cool, even tone, so at odds with only a few hours before, sent him on his way. I watched him go with guilt, but no regret. Then, gathering what little courage I had, I went in search of the Phantom.

He was where I had left him, still weeping. He held the wedding veil in his hands, holding it up to his one unblemished cheek. So wrapped up was he in his grief, he did not hear me approach. He jumped when I lay a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me, his eyes widening in disbelief. Oh, those green eyes! I could feel the tears gathering in my own blue ones. I knelt down before him, taking his cold, shaking hands in my own. And I sang it for him. That last verse… the one that touched my heart all those years ago.

"_Love to thee my thoughts are turning,_

_All through the night._

_All for thee my heart is yearning _

_All through the night!_

_Though sad fate our lives may sever,_

_Parting will not last forever!_

_There's a hope that leaves me never,_

_All through the night."_

It had been there, all along; the courage I had always thought myself lacking. It just needed the right words to set it free. We fell into each other's arms then, his face frantically kissing my disordered hair, his hands clutching at me as if afraid to let me go. My head was nestled against where his neck met his shoulder, and I breathed in his scent; my arms around him, hands splayed across his back.

"You were right. I never was worthy of your love. But let me try. Please, my Angel- let me try." I was crying into the lapel of his jacket.

He pulled away at that, smiling sadly, "There is no Angel… there is no Phantom- there is only Erik." He toyed with a lock of my hair. I framed his poor abused face with both my hands.

"Erik," I said the name softly, letting it roll in my mouth. He kissed my forehead, and left me a moment. Suddenly, the portcullis descended, and then a terrible grinding sound followed. And then the light from the torches of the mob were gone, and there was only the candle-light of his home.

"It won't hold them for long, but for long enough." He said, smoothing a wig back over his head, and fixing the mask back in place. "We don't have much time." He went into the room with the swan-shaped bed; returned with his cloak, hat and a cloak for me. "Come, there are other ways out of the Opera. Will you go with me?" He held his hand out.  
"Where-ever you lead, I will follow." I answered. He swept himself up close to me, then, tilting my head at the angle he wanted.

"I have dreamed all my life of this." The Phantom- Erik- murmured. And for the first time, _he_ kissed _me_.

_C'est fini. That's it, folks… I've finally finished it! I hope that it was all that those of you who have reviewed and favorited this story hoped for… because this last chapter has drained me emotionally… and I've had to watch various incarnations of the Phantom over and over and over again to get it right. There may be an epilogue; just a quick denouement, I haven't decided yet._

_But since this tangled tale has ended, please, please, please review! And read my newest story, "On a North Bound Train" (and review it too! It doesn't have any yet, poor baby!)._

_Warmest regards lots of love, and thanks for all the support from my fellow writers and phans!_

_K.S._


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